“Nothin’,” he said, lifting his gaze skyward.

She slanted her head. “Are you making fun of the way I talk?”

He shifted his gaze to her. “No more than you make fun of me.”

“I never make fun of you,” she said. There was no denying that his way with words had sometimes made her laugh, but never in a critical or unkind way.

Sunlight shimmered in his eyes, and something passed between them—a flame, a spark—catching her off guard. Feeling a quiver run down her spine, she quickly changed the subject.

“How long do I have to keep riding in circles?”

“Until you’re ready.”

Relieved that the worrisome moment had passed, she quickly resumed her role as difficult pupil. “And when will that be?” she demanded.

“When you have more wrinkles on your horns.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shot her a look of impatience. “It means when you have more experience.”

She knuckled her waist and glared at him. This time, the eyes looking back held no soft lights or warm flames, only grim determination. Partly out of disappointment, she lashed out at him. “You’re not my boss!”

She turned and stomped away.

“My brother died,” he called after her.

She stopped midstep and turned. Not sure she’d heard right, she tilted her head. “What?”

“Out there.” Chase indicated the area with a toss of his head. “His hoss stepped into a hole.” He told her the rest in short, disjointed sentences, each word heavy with grief. “My brother was only fifteen, and I still miss him.”

She felt his pain, and her heart went out to him. It was as if a window of his soul had been thrown open, revealing a hidden side of him. He’d seemed so strong, so self-possessed. So utterly in charge of his surroundings. Never had she imagined he kept such grief locked inside.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” she said. His brother’s death explained a lot. No wonder Chase was so safety-conscious. Feeling guilty for giving him such a hard time, she moved toward him and placed a hand on his arm. He gazed at her hand for a moment before covering it with his own.

They had trouble at times understanding each other, but not now. The silence that followed was rife with the secret language of the heart.

“I’m sorry for being so difficult,” she whispered at last. “I had no idea.”

“I don’t like to talk ’bout it,” he said.

“I can understand that.”

“I reckon you can.” He studied her. “Are you ever gonna tell me what you’re runnin’ from?”

The unexpected question made her stiffen and pull her hand away. “I never said I was running.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of a galloping horse drew his attention away from her.

Emily recognized the man as the foreman Boomer. His horse’s front hooves left the ground as he shouted. “We lost a couple of calves. Looks like the work of a panther.”